Quotes to inspire and reflect

Th’ imperial ensign, which, full high advanc’d, Shone like a meteor, streaming to the wind. 3

When night Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.

Spirits, when they please, Can either sex assume, or both.

Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In Vallombrosa.

Awake, arise, or be forever fallen!

To reign is worth ambition though in hell: Better to reign in hell than serve in heav’n.

His spear, to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast Of some great ammiral, were but a wand, He walk’d with, to support uneasy steps Over the burning marle.

A mind not to be chang’d by place or time. The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heav’n.

The seat of desolation, void of light.

To be weak is miserable, Doing or suffering.

And out of good still to find means of evil.

What though the field be lost? All is not lost; th’ unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield.

Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all.

No light, but rather darkness visible.

Him the Almighty Power Hurl’d headlong flaming from th’ ethereal sky With hideous ruin and combustion down To bottomless perdition, there to dwell In adamantine chains and penal fire, Who durst defy th’ Omnipotent to arms.

What in me is dark Illumine, what is low raise and support; That to the height of this great argument I may assert eternal Providence, And justify the ways of God to men.

The infernal serpent; he it was, whose guile, Stirr’d up with envy and revenge, deceiv’d The mother of mankind.

But oh! as to embrace me she inclin’d, I wak’d, she fled, and day brought back my night.

Of Man’s first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste Brought death into the world, and all our woe, With loss of Eden.

Yet I argue not Against Heav’n’s hand or will, nor bate one jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up, and steer Right onward.

Methought I saw my late espoused saint Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave.

Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o’er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter’d saints, whose bones Lie scatter’d on the Alpine mountains cold; Ev’n them who kept thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshipp’d stocks and stones Forget not.

When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodg’d with me useless.

Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?

Peace hath her victories No less renown’d than war.

Where the bright seraphim in burning row Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow.

O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Warbl’st at eve, when all the woods are still.

Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.

For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor; So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed; And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky. So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of him that walk’d the waves.

At last he rose, and twitch’d his mantle blue: Tomorrow to fresh woods and pastures new.

Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.

Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world.

The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said; But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.

Blind mouths! That scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook.

Last came, and last did go, The Pilot of the Galilean lake; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain, (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).

It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th’ eclipse, and rigg’d with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

As killing as the canker to the rose.

Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil.

But O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return!

Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove afield; and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Batt’ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night.

Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse.

He knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.

Love Virtue, she alone is free, She can teach ye how to climb Higher than the sphery chime; Or, if Virtue feeble were, Heav’n itself would stoop to her.

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forc’d fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.

But now my task is smoothly done: I can fly, or I can run.

Sabrina fair, Listen where thou art sitting Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, In twisted braids of lilies knitting The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair; Listen for dear honor’s sake, Goddess of the silver lake, Listen and save.

Beauty is Nature’s coin, must not be hoarded, But must be current, and the good thereof Consists in mutual and partaken bliss.